Instead, I said, “Lead the way.” His room was exactly what you’d expect. A flag on the wall. Dirty laundry in a pile. A bed that creaked like a confession booth.
“What’s your biggest fear?” (Spiders. And graduating with no plan.) “What’s a memory you’d relive?” (My dad teaching me to drive stick shift.) “Who broke your heart first?” (A boy named Liam. Sophomore year of high school. Cliché.)
By week three, I’d stopped telling my roommate where I was going. She’d just see me grab my keys and say, “Cole?” And I’d blush.
“I look sober,” I said. “There’s a difference.”
Cole didn’t ask my name. He just leaned against the wall next to me and said, “You look like trouble.”
I learned more about my own worth in that one messy month with Cole than in four years of high school assemblies. I learned that I am not a prize to be won. I learned that the “college rules” aren’t about curfews or party safety—they’re about deciding what you want before someone else decides for you.
And here’s the part I don’t tell my mom: It was good . Not magical. Not the movies. But good in the way that makes you forget why you were scared in the first place. He was careful. Attentive. Kept asking, “You okay?” until I finally laughed and said, “Cole, I’m fine. Just shut up.”